


Gabriel and Beelzebub's Divintively Terrible Plan

by Or_Am_I



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Amnesia, Gay disaster, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Memory Loss, Panic Attacks, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Temporary Amnesia, i'm winging this so tags will be updated as i go, this probably should have a rating less severe than mature but i'm paranoid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-05-15 14:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Or_Am_I/pseuds/Or_Am_I
Summary: What better way to get rid of a pesky angel and demon than erasing over 6000 years worth of their memories?(also the title is a pun, hahaha i'm sorry)





	1. Who Knows Whose Who is Whose

**Author's Note:**

> this story (my first actually, i am scared) was inspired by a tumblr post laughing over how funny it would be if both aziraphale and crowley lost their memories, and I decided to add my two cents.
> 
> i don't have a beta, so all mistakes are mine. feel free to point them out! (i kept misspelling crowley's name, so one of those little typos might have snuck in)

**CHAPTER ONE**

      Propping one elbow on the rim of the washtub ~~Aziraphale~~ Crowley eyed the gawking demons on the other side of the glass, playfully flicking drops of holy water at them, eliciting fearful gasps. Smirking, he turned to face his prosecutors and began drying his hands with the towel ~~his boss~~ Michael had miracled him. What he was feeling right now was undeniably some sort of sin, but he couldn’t help but to take joy from his appalled superiors. He made direct eye contact with the distinctly uncomfortable Beelzebub, fixing his ~~borrowed~~ reptilian eyes on hers.

     “I think… it would be best all of us, if I were left alone in from now on.” Beelezebub nodded mutely. Then shaking her head minutely to regain her composure, she dismissed him. And just like that, the demon Crowley was freed from Hell’s burning grasp.

~~~

      Stiltedly walking ~~Aziraphale’s body~~ into the towering inferno, he spared one last glance towards Gabriel, whose final words to the angel were to hurry up and die already. The demon currently piloting the tartan clad body stilled at that comment, infuriated. Directing his steely gaze towards the overblown campfire awaiting him, he decided that a dose of petty revenge was necessary in this situation. He had planned to make this short and sweet as to not aggravate the overpowered angels in the room, but he now felt that these fuckers who verbally abused his angel would be taught a lesson.

      The heat was nearly blinding, the flames licking up and down his sides, recognizing his demonic presence and caressing his being like one holds a long lost pet. The nervous thoughts that had been on the verge of filling his mind were assuaged, his survival instincts settled by the comforting reassurance of the hellfire whipping about him. ~~Crowley~~ Aziraphale sighed the sigh of a person settling into a nest of blankets with a glass of wine and perhaps a small, furry creature. Confidence built, the rather confusing identity’s eyes snapped open, grinning smugly at the poorly disguised looks of abject horror gracing the usually self-satisfied faces watching him. He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but he decided he didn’t quite care, grabbing ahold of the flames nearest him and funneling them out towards the startled archangels.

      Stepping primly out of the rock circle, he smiled contentedly at Gabriel, the angel’s purple eyes alight with a mixture of fear and rage. He clasped his hands behind his back, preparing for the most important words of his life.

      “Well-” He said, raising his eyebrows. “It would appear that you all have been...played for suckers.”

The angels remained silent.

      “And if you don’t mind, I will be taking my leave now. But I must ask that you leave me be in the future, I won’t take kindly to unwelcome visitors.”

      Crowley finished with a convincingly cocky impersonation of Aziraphale’s “I-am-holier-than-thou” posturing.

      For once, the archangels of heaven were silent. ~~Crowley~~ The Principality who had apparently “gone native” looked at Gabriel pointedly, prompting his acquiescence. Clearing his throat awkwardly, the archangel Gabriel, Hailer of Nazareth, One of Two Good and Holy Angels absolved an irritating Principality of his heavenly responsibility.

~~~

      A tan overcoat swaggered unhurriedly across the well manicured lawn of St. James’ park, making its way to a specific bench overlooking the water. The man in the coat caught the eye of a fashionably dressed ginger sitting rigidly on the left side of the seat, and picked up his pace ever so slightly. Upon completing his journey Crowley sprawled leisurely over his half of the bench, position entirely foreign to a body practically mummified in tartan. The two men sat in silence for a good two minutes, the quiet only broken by the murmured chattering of secret agents occupying the benches nearby. Crowley couldn’t decide if the lack of conversation was awkward, or simply peaceful, but he didn’t want to take the risk.

     “I, er.” He sniffed, mentally berating himself for not thinking this through. Crowley was far from your mother’s average demon, but he did adhere to the stereotype that demons, if feelings were present in them at all, were objectively terrible at expressing them.

     The man in sunglasses was looking at him curiously now. Crowley frowned, concentrating.

     “Your boss is a prick. And uhm, you didn’t- I mean, you deserved...better.”

A small smile appeared on his angels face as Crowley focused on looking less self-conscious than he felt. Pushing ~~empathetic kind considerate~~ gentle words through his harsh filter was harder than he’d anticipated.

      “Better than that-them, erm, Heaven. In general.”

      The demon slammed his jaws shut as soon as the last word escaped, his demonic tendencies revolting. He stared resolutely at a duck who had been foolish enough to wander too close to “his” leather dress shoes in hopes of the bread the two occult creatures usually brought. The mallard refused to acknowledge the lack of crumbs on their clothes, and instead of waddling away to harass the whisper-arguing Russian agent on the next bench over, instigated a staring contest with the uncharacteristically relaxed white-haired man.

      “Thank you, my dear,”

Crowley had never realized how gravelly his body’s voice was.

      “that is very kind of you.”

Aziraphale smiled softly, and Crowley thought that flushing at something your own body said to you was highly disconcerting.


	2. Ready, Set, SCHEME!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel is full of himself, the letter "z" is abused, and a temperamental witch gets noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on posting the second chapter today, but your guys' comments yesterday encouraged me to finish the editing. So thanks for that!  
> And don't expect me to post every day though, it won't happen.

**CHAPTER TWO**

Purgatory, as the middle ground between Heaven and Hell, was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It resembled the generic waiting room of a dentist office. The chairs were plasticy and boring, but with just enough upholstery to be acceptably comfortable. The floor was covered in clean, ugly tile that didn’t squeak when shoes scuffed it. The walls were painted, though a rather sickly looking yellow-green colour. The place was kept an appropriate temperature by a swamp cooler, which occasionally broke down, making the room smell of fish. When the contraption found it convenient to function, the air was inexplicably humid and sharp to the nose at the same time. The domain generally smelled of vanilla, which was _this close_ from being sickeningly sweet. Two windows let in some natural light (residual light from heaven above), but the glass panels provided no view to gaze at, merely showing off a dirt plane with increasingly pathetic patches of glass the closer to Hell it got.

Purgatory was empty, as per usual (most humans commit some deed that makes them immediately eligible for Hell or Heaven and never even make it to Purgatory’s nondescript doorstep. This place was reserved for those who, like Purgatory itself, were remarkably insipid.) when Gabriel alighted on its white-and-blue speckled flooring. Electric purple eyes sweeping over the deserted waiting room, the archangel straightened his coat. He didn’t want to seem ruffled in front of the adversary. It wasn’t because he was a bit nervous, heavens no- he simply wanted to represent the very best upstairs had to offer. He ran a hand through his hair, and checked a watch he didn’t have that wouldn’t have functioned anyway because Purgatory was just a smidgen to the left of time. He strode to a small plastic table coupled with two chairs whose fabric vaguely resembled confetti, coat rustling as he turned on his heel to stand straight-backed beside it. Sitting could only be interpreted as a sign of submission to his… confidant, and he refused to show any sign of weakness, especially when discussing such a troubling matter.

The swamp cooler stuttered from where it was squeezed into a window frame, exhaling recycled air into the space. The fluorescent lights had grown considerably brighter when the angel arrived, and they flickered as the ground began to boil ominously, heralding Beelzeub’s arrival. Small burps of acrid smelling gas popped from the floor, the molten ceramic oozing aside to make way for a shaggy, dark haired head emerging from the glop. The angel’s nose hair burned as he stood resolutely with his arms stiffly at his side. He watched the ground give way to a scrawny, suited form with a mildly condescending look on her face.

The fly-ridden Prince of Hell emerged from the warped patch of flooring with a demeanour that closely resembled Gabriel’s expression. The two beings stared at each other for a moment as the lights righted themselves. They seemed to have engaged in an unofficial staring contest, and the only thing in existence that could end it were the final, shuddering wheezes of a dying swamp cooler.

The angel’s lip formed an involuntary sneer. The demon quirked a brow disapprovingly. An angelic glance was spared for the abused tiles, which were found to be completely unblemished, as they always had been. Clearing his throat, Gabriel gestured to the table he was standing next to.

“Would you… like to sit down?”

Beelzebub’s face was pure bratty defiance.

“No.”

Gabriel sighed. He had expected this much ~~he probably would have done the same if she’d been the one asking~~ , time to compromise like the higher being he was.

“How about we both sit? At the same time.”

He ventured, patting the chair nearest him invitingly, internally cringing at the childish methods he had been reduced to. Beelzebub stared coldly at him for a good ten seconds before pulling out the chair opposite him. As they lowered themselves into their seats, Gabriel noted the messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

“Beelzebub, we agreed that the only things attending this meeting would be ourselves.”

When his comment provoked no response, he tried again.

“Sorry, but the bag’s gotta go.”

He smiled, with just enough forced cheer to be threatening. Beelzebub’s blue orbs rolled.

“Relaxxzz, you uptight feather duzter. The bag’zz not dangerouz, not to uzz anyway.”

She snarked, her voice vibrating, its buzzy quality worming its way into Gabriel’s ears. He almost felt violated by it, hethought, eye twitching. The angel raised his immaculately shaped eyebrows, smiling disbelievingly.

“Uh huh. Elaborate please.”

The demon countered with discussing it later in favour of moving on to the matter at hand, and knowing that he would have to be complacent to get anywhere with the stubborn creature he was forced to work with Gabriel reluctantly agreed, keeping a skeptical eye on the bag all the same.

“So. I’ve, ah, heard that recently Hell’s attempt to punish the demon...what was his name again?”

“Crowley. The traitorouzzz zzznake had a hand in averting the apocalypze.”

Gabriel nodded, remembering the arrogant tempter who had conspired with Aziraphale.

“Right. So I heard that that holy water delivered from Heaven itself, from the hands of the _archangel Michael_ . That had _no_ effect?”

Beelzebub scowled, confirming his suspicions.

“And when Heaven attempted to deliver divine justice unto the Principality Aziraphale for-”

Beelzebub interrupted.

“Zzcrewing up what we’ve been working towardz for **zixz thouzand yearzz?!** ”

Her hands clenched white on the table, flies buzzing in a furious frenzy around her head. Gabriel privately agreed with her (although he would have used stronger language).

“That is certainly one way to put it, yes. We were given the most devastating hellfire your realm possessed, and yet Aziraphale not only survived, but was able to _control_ the fire. He nearly burnt us!”

He exclaimed, hoping to impress upon the demon how dire the situation had become. The Prince looked genuinely surprised for a moment before the apathetic frown concealed her emotions again. A few strands of oily black hair swung into her eyes as her head lowered.

Gabriel clasped his hands on the table, waiting for the demon to speak. When she didn’t, he was once again faced with the task of starting conversation again.

“I wanted this meeting because we cannot allow two rogues to exist. Who knows what ridiculous ideas our troops will get if they continue to spread their...delusions? And it’s not as if we can...well. Our courses of action are limited.”

He muttered uneasily, fingers reaching up to tug at his sweater collar. The air had acquired a damp, sticky quality to it as the effects of the cooler wore off.

Neither of them would openly admit it, but both were very afraid of the angel and demon who could withstand the things that irrevocably, unquestionably, killed angels and demons. It was something that hadn’t occurred in over six thousand years, it was unheard of. And if they were resistant to their species’ only surefire methods of execution, what else were they capable of? And did they want to find out?

Beelzebub swiped her tongue over her bottom lip nervously, attempting a confident facade.

“Zo what if we can’t kill them.”

Gabriel looked up curiously.

“Excuse me?”

“Zzo what if we can’t kill them! They don’t need to be dead, juzt incapazitated.”

Gabriel rolled the idea around in his head for a moment. The logic was there, but there was still the problem of Aziraphale spreading his delusions of peace among other angels.

“Sounds like a nice idea, but how do we get rid of them in a way that they can’t pass on their misguided ideas to others?”

Beelzebub grinned. A demon grinning isn’t a particularly pleasant sight, especially when that demon has flies coming in and out of her mouth like some sick kind of revolving door. Several had already pushed their way out the corners of her grimy mouth. The angel’s placating smile tightened in disgust. The Prince paid him no mind, bringing his attention to the messenger bag once more.

“See- that’zz what thiz izz for.”

She plopped the old leather bag onto the tabletop, the object inside landing with a heavy sounding clunk. Lifting the flap, she proceeded to carefully pull out a small, deteriorating black velvet ring box. She presented it before him as if it were God’s Great Plan all wrapped up for them to read. Gabriel drew himself up straight, leaning in closer in case what made the box so special was very small. He studied it, trying to understand why the demon sitting at his table was so proud of it.

“What exactly do human coupling traditions have to do with any of this.”

He said haughtily, masking his confoundment with contempt. The Prince frowned and rolled her eyes even further back, if that was possible, then placed the box in the center of the table. The bag fell back at her side.

“I expected you to recognizze it-”

Gabriel frowned, irritated by her audacity to insult his knowledge of… wherever this thing came from.

“But God had nothing to do with itz creation, so I suppoze that makezz zenzze. Zo to make a long ztory short, a long time ago there waz thizz witch who propozed to her ye old boyfriend or whatever, but back then it waz improper for women to do such a thing. Her boyfriend waz zzo offended that he left her, and she got zo upzzet that she curzzed the ringbox. She enchanted it to capture the memoriezz her boyfriend had of the event, becauze she waz afraid he’d tell people what had happened, and that she would be zcorned for doing zuch a thing. But the thing izz, she wazn’t a very good witch, and the box took _all_ hiz memoriezz.”

Beelzebub paused for breath, and Gabriel jumped in.

“So was it a one time deal?”

“No. Zomeone found it after she died and opened it. The ztolen memoriezz ezcaped and returned to their owner, even though he wazz long dead. Hell commandeered it after that incident, and it hazzn’t been uzed zince.”

The archangel leaned back in his chair, the plastic groaning slightly from lack of use.

“...So what you’re saying is that this memory box is empty, and we can use it on Aziraphale and Crowley?”

The demon nodded. Gabriel tapped his chin contemplatively.

“Hang on, can the box hold two minds worth of memories at once? Because we wouldn’t be able to open it a second time after dealing with one of them, it’d just release the first one’s memories.” He observed thoughtfully, glancing at the inconspicuously powerful object sitting between them. The hair on his forearms were standing on end. The magic woven into the velvet was albeit sloppy, but the passion with which it had been created made it all the more powerful.

“All we have to izz aim it at both of them and they’ll be taken zimultaneouzzly.”

Gabriel huffed a small chuckle, rapped his fingers on the table and stood, the chair squeaking in protest. Beelzebub was upright soon after, dusting off her coat. Vibrant purple eyes crinkled with amusement as the angel extended a hand towards the Prince of Hell. His chilly hand was grasped by a feverish one, and Gabriel leaned forward ever so slightly to ask a question he felt ought to be whispered, even though they were alone.

“Think you can spare some weaker demons for the job?” He whispered conspiringly, suppressing the urge to swat one of the demon’s insects that was exploring his neck into divine oblivion.

“I’ll zee to it.” Beelzebub leered, giving the holy being’s hand a firm shake.

With the lingering smell of roadkill in the air, the ground opened its roiling maw to swallow up the Lord of the Flies as blinding divine light spilled over the plane, making it almost impossible to see the faint outline of towering lavender wings thrusting upwards towards Heaven.

Purgatory was deserted once more, not a single molecule indicating that two immortals had ever occupied it. It was a bit disappointed honestly, this had been the most action the realm had seen in decades, and it had nothing to show for it but faint elevator music as the swamp cooler heaved itself back into miserable life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this plot i smell? it is!! wow!  
> so thanks for finishing this chapter, hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> please leave kudos if you liked it, and maybe a comment to let me know what you thought! see you next chapter!


	3. Human Innovation Represented by Nokia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've made a demon!"   
> "You fucked up a perfectly good snake is what you did. Look at it, it's got anxiety!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhhhhh  
> i am tired, but i promised myself i would update on wednesdays, so here i am. i don't know if this chapter is that good but i couldn't figure out how to fix it, so
> 
> yep

**CHAPTER THREE**

Aziraphale was a bit worried about his friend. Logically speaking, there wasn’t anything wrong with him- the apocalypse had been called off, Adam had put reality back on its feet, their respective head offices weren’t calling for their heads. And yet, the angel couldn’t help but feel the demon was acting strange. He had called on Aziraphale several times per week during the months that followed the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, and although Aziraphale found this to be a rather pleasant surprise (he initiated many of their days together now as well), he’d begun to notice a significant trend in Crowley’s increasingly regular visits. That being, he didn’t. Crowley seemed determined to avoid the bookshop at all costs. If Aziraphale invited him over, he’d make a counter offer or abruptly cancel and reschedule at a different location. As a result Aziraphale was becoming better acquainted with his best friend’s flat, but he was beginning to worry if the demon simply did not like the bookshop anymore. But, he supposed, it was irrelevant. The time spent with Crowley is what mattered.

Sighing into the musty air, Aziraphale gently closed Agnes Nutter’s book of Nice and Accurate Prophecies (He’d had to beg Adam to let him keep a copy without stealing Anathema’s). He’d taken great delight in deciphering her already proven accurate predictions, it was like playing some grand game of connect the dots- he’d had a good laugh with Crowley over her instructions regarding Betamax.

But there was no point in worrying over something if you weren’t going to do anything about, he decided. Removing his gloves, he scootched the chair back and picked his way over several small stacks of books littering the floors (not that he particularly condoned a dishevelled shop, but it had served rather well as a customer deterrent in the past- twisted ankles were something no one enjoyed) to the telephone. Well, it was actually his new “flip phone” that Crowley had coaxed him into buying. Said owning a rotary phone was an affront to human innovation, and that the least he could do to keep up with the times would be getting an upgrade. His demonic friend had been pushing a smartphone, but Aziraphale met him halfway with a Nokia flip phone. He hadn’t been too fond of it originally- still didn’t like the idea that Crowley may have been right about the usefulness of modern technology, but the little contraption (“Little?! It’s a brick with a price tag!” Crowley had exclaimed at that remark. He’d been torn between hating the flip phone and grateful that Aziraphale finally had a mobile) had grown on him. It really was quite handy for taking calls, and although texting took him an inordinate amount of time, he did enjoy righteously snapping the lid shut when he wished to hang up on someone with flair.

Scrolling through his contacts to Crowley’s name, he paused. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. If he pushed Crowley too far...no, Crowley is a demon and of strong character, this wouldn’t cause problems. It wouldn’t. As his phone dialed a loud and annoying tune, he noticed vaguely that in stories whenever a character has to reassure themselves that their course of action was right, it never was.

Unfortunately this thought had been drowned out by the first few seconds of a voicemail message, interrupted by the sleepy sounds of his friend waking himself up. 

“Ngh...hey ‘ziraphale, what’ss up?” he mumbled, a drowsy hiss escaping his defences. 

“Crowley! Ah, good morning dear boy, I hope I didn’t wake you?” He stuttered, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of something to say before calling.

“Nah, you’re fine. I mean, you did. But it’ss fine…” Crowley said, dangerously close to falling back asleep.

“Well, I was wondering if you would like to have a drink this evening?” He began, his mind desperately scrabbling for plausible reasoning for his next query almost audible.

 

Crowley seemed to perk up at that.

 

“Yeah, sure, sounds great. So- so, the Ritz? My place?”

 

Aziraphale rubbed a manicured nail anxiously.

 

“Ah, well, see, I was thinking. And I thought that since I...have something to show you here at the bookshop, why don’t you just meet me here, I can show you that, ah,  _ thing _ , and then we can indulge ourselves afterwards?”

 

Silence from the other end of the line. 

 

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. He had to convince Crowley that it was necessary he come or he might never find out why he was avoiding their old haunt. 

“I, erm, well- I’ll be frank with you my dear, I received something recently that is unexpectedly demonic, it can’t be moved outside the shop, and I require your assistance in managing it.”

It is important to know at the point that Aziraphale hadn’t manipulated his best friend completely. He actually had received a mysterious package that radiated demonic energy. So he had no choice but to open it at some point, it’s not like he could give it to a human, it could be dangerous (besides, the box was rather large and was taking up far too much space in the shop to be ignored).

“-It’s just. Well. Crowley, I need your help with this, and I was really hoping you’d be willing.” he babbled. He hoped his friend would cooperate.

“...Yea, uh if you really need me at the shop, than I can..I can do that.”

The angel sighed in relief, a hand fluttering to his chest.

“Oh, oh thank you, dear boy, that’s really very--”

He would have kept talking if not for the telltale shrill from his phone that Crowley had hung up on him. A white eyebrow arched. 

 

Strange behaviour indeed.

 

~~~

 

The sun was setting, evening had fallen. Washed out pink and gold streaks coloured the darkening sky, the few puffy clouds that were still dithering overhead hastened over the hills like obedient sheep called by their shepherd. London was calm, street lights becoming visible and casting a warm yellow glow over the roads. The atmosphere was serene, a perfect night to enjoy a glass (or several) of fine alcohol with a loved one. Yet the demon Crowley wasn’t picking up on this. He was sitting in his Bentley, white knuckling the wheel, staring doggedly at the dash as if it had compared his fashion sense to Aziraphale’s. The car was not moving. Crowley had slumped into the leather seat near ten minutes ago and hadn’t done anything since. He was waiting. Waiting, to not  fear  dread seeing the bookshop again. He wouldn’t admit it, but the demon hadn’t dealt with all the... _ feelings _ the fire gave him. It was almost like he was afraid to go back to the scene of the crime.

He’d considered dropping by the shop several times before, but had never gone through with it, always swerving into some back alley (or on one memorable occasion, a window- the Bentley’s to be precise) to avoid it. Het let out a growly sigh, removed his sunglasses, stared at the ceiling, reconsidered his last course of action and put the glasses on again, and finally willed the ever patient car into life.

Contrary to popular belief, the Bentley had been getting fed up with its driver’s antics and had been about thirty seconds away from kicking its engine into gear and driving him there itself.

Thankfully the stalling demon got his act together before that happened and remained blissfully unaware of his automobile’s opinions.

Crowley didn’t think about much while on the road. He simply focused on the fact that he would be helping Aziraphale and as a plus, consuming a concerning amount of alcohol. And that was enough for him. Except for the one occasion when it wasn’t and he regretted everything, letting loose a string of curse words screamed at the top of his lungs.

Soon enough he was pulling into the parking space on the corner of the shop, and the majority of his anxiety had been dealt with.

Spoiler alert, it hadn’t. Crowley just happens to be rather good at lying to himself. (Which is also a lie. Or is it?)

In the blink of a golden eye, Crowley was standing before the wooden door once again. But the major difference was that it was not burning to charcoal before him, and he did his best to remind himself of that fact. Rapping politely, his gaze drifted towards Aziraphale’s unnecessarily convoluted sign regarding his store’s hours, snorting under his breath at the ridiculous measures his angel took to keep out customers. 

Wait.

Crowley was a  _ demon _ . Demons did  _ not _ “rapp politely.” Demons were rude and did what they wanted, and Crowley liked to consider himself somewhat of an unsavoury character- working for Hell or not, he had a reputation to uphold. So the obvious thing to do would be to barge in on whatever the angel was doing in a rather insensitive manner. But Crowley didn’t want to do that. He’d rather put off going into the shop for as long as possible, as he’d made quite clear over the past months. The serpentine demon decided a compromise would have to do, banging out a thundering rhythm on the poor abused tree the moment Aziraphale decided to open the door.

Crowley, nearly whacking the unsuspecting shopkeep soundly on the nose, retracted his fist quickly and arranged his face in an expression of vague distaste. Aziraphale blinked, a hand shooting up belatedly to protect his face. He chuckled lightly, chapped lips quirking upwards at the sight before him. Hands shoved into his pockets, eyes unreadable through dark shades, was his best friend Crowley. A mumbled sort of apology escaped his sharp tongue, seemingly without the consent of its master. 

“Well do come in, dear boy, that box isn’t going to open itself.” Aziraphale said warmly, beckoning the demon inside.

His shoulders tensed as he strutted into the cluttered space. Everything seemed perfectly fine, he could even smell a whiff of cocoa in the air. He supposed the box was the thing that couldn’t leave the shop and required Crowley’s personal assistance-

Now that he thought about it, that sounded like-

 

“Angel, did you make up that whole box thing just to get me in the shop?” he questioned.

 

“Why would I need to, unless you’ve been avoiding it?” Aziraphale responded, an innocent look on his face.

 

Sneaky angel, Crowley thought. Kinda endearing.

 

...No, he amended.

 

The angel gave a little half-smile and clapped his hands. “So! Recently I was delivered an anonymous package, see that large crate over there-?” he pointed out the conspicuous looking wooden crate occupying a back corner of the book shop. It had an aura, almost like it was...wait. Crowley sniffed. He’d been shoving his more unappealing emotions into a hole for the past few minutes, but now there was something... in the air- acrid, smoky, 

 

b u r n i n g

 

A flicker of red orange light appeared out of the corner of his eye. No, no no, this could not be happening again Aziraphale was too careful and  _ oh  _ _ god _ _ someone his angel was still here _ , he might not be so lucky again--

 

“...so you see the problem is the demonic aura this beastie is emanating, I really think that you would be more suited to…”

 

_ \--his heart was beating wildly in his chest, it usually didn’t beat at all-- _

 

Crowley whirled around to beat out the flames -- _ he could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck-- _

 

Only to find that there was nothing? Nothing, just nothing, that couldn’t be right -- _ short, erratic breaths pushed themselves out, desperate for air he didn’t need-- _ He frowned, somewhat aware of the plump man in his peripherals calling after him confusedly.

“Crowley?”

Crowley didn’t seem to hear him, fidgeting and glaring at a spot by his desk.

_ \--he could smell smoke, it didn’t make sense it DIDN’T MAKE SENSE-- _

Aziraphale approached his friend. He’d never seen him like this, he didn’t seem quite well, chest almost heaving as he stood stock still. 

“Crowley are you alright, you’re starting to worry me!” He exclaimed, and laid a gentle hand on the suited shoulder. Crowley started, blinking rapidly behind his glasses and jerkily maneuvering himself away from the angel’s touch. Now that was definitely odd, Crowley never had a problem with contact- several occasions where Crowley had draped himself over Aziraphale when he was hungover attest to that.

“Dear boy, do tell me what’s wrong.” He worried insistently.

Crowley smiled awkwardly and suggested they take the box outside in case whatever was inside damaged his precious books. Aziraphale considered this to actually be a sound idea, but one look at the wheezing demon practically wringing his hands beside him made his mind up for him.

“That sounds like a fantastic idea my dear, why don’t we go, ah, scope out a good place for it first hm?” He said soothingly, guiding his friend towards the back door.

Crowley felt the cool night air like a slap to the face. It was all hitting him now.

Tears streaming down his face, eyes burning-

 

_ aziraphale- _

 

smoke pooling in his lungs, burning him from the inside, scorching heat charring everything he loved to cinders-

 

_ he’s gone, gone- _

 

the roar of the flames hammered in his eardrums, the sickening sounds of home crumbling to ash behind him-

 

_ AZIRAPHALE HE’S DEAD- _

 

he couldn’t see couldn’t breathe couldn’t   t h i n k

 

_ SOMEBODY  KILLED  MY  BEST  FRIEND _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanksssss for reading
> 
> please leave kudos if you liked it, and maybe a comment to let me know what you thought! see you next wednesday you heckin gays


	4. Boxes Are Not A Plot Device

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which minds are violated, too many references to the book are made, and graphic descriptions of tongues are written.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so...  
> sorry about being like a week late. this chapter did NOT want to be written. I still don't really like how it came out, but the changes I've made have stopped helping so I figured i"d just post it.  
> Hope it isn't too cringe inducing, since this is a big point in the plot.  
> Enjoy!

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Aziraphale, having known Crowley for around six thousand years, know quite a bit about him. Some of the more important things were the fact that Crowley cried, he could do weird things with his tongue, and most importantly, he was seldom truly fearful. True fear was rare in ethereal or occult beings and even rarer in the Serpent of Eden. The demon tended to smother his emotions, out what Aziraphale assumed was pride. So to see him experience what could only be described as a severe panic attack was  _ unsettling  _ to say the least. But Aziraphale was predominantly worried as he hurried inside to collect a soft rag and a glass of water from where he’d left Crowley sitting in the outside lot. He’d been twisting at his jacket sleeves, knees curling up to his chest the last he’d seen him. 

The angel had made a friend in the late nineteenth century (Crowley had been asleep at the time so he’d been available) out of an intrepid customer who had, despite his best efforts, managed to visit his shop weekly. Eventually his annoyance gave way to grudging admiration and they became fast friends. She figured out that he didn’t particularly want to sell his books, so she just curled up in a corner with a stack of tomes and a pair of cotton gloves for hours, never buying. One unfortunate day she decided to bring her fellow book enthusiast with her on her weekly visit, and he was less than patient with the seller’s antics. He pressured the poor girl into simply buying the book she’d been reading for the past few weeks (he hadn’t planned on a long visit), and as a result she’d panicked, not knowing who she wanted to please. Apparently the man she’d been with was her date, and he was alarmed by her nervous breakdown and abandoned her there. Aziraphale had done his best to help her that day, and it was then she’d informed him of several generic ways to help someone having a panic attack.

The first rule, let the patient decide what they need (physical contact being a big one), don’t force anything on them. The second, if they look like they might be about to hurt themselves (whether intentionally or not), give them something mindless to do with their hands. The third was to attempt to understand what happened once they were calm. 

He mouthed the rules to himself as he scuttled over the hardwood, gently opening the door to the back porch. Closing it with a soft click, he saw Crowley was now upright. A good start, he cheered silently. The lanky demon looked at him from over his shoulder balefully, and it was then Aziraphale noticed the crate had moved itself outside, and Crolwey was preparing to break it open. He hovered over the last step, confused.

“Crowley, why...well, are you alri--”

Crowley waved him over and cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine, now are we going to see what’s been hogging your floor space or what?”

The angel’s eye roll was barely reigned in as he begrudgingly acquiesced. Of course Crowley would pretend everything was fine, his ego was roughly the size of Soho afterall. His demonic nature made him too proud to ever ask for help. Demons liked themselves very much, and accepted help from none, lest their “reputation” be tarnished (although a certain demon tarnished his own reputation by making his most common wile gluing coins to the street). He’d resigned himself to this fact centuries ago, he just preferred not to think of it. He preferred to fool himself into thinking that Crowley knew just how much he was loved.

Meanwhile, the demon had begun to pry open the top of the crate, miraculously avoiding the splinters gunning for his slender fingers. Aziraphale sighed. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t just drop the issue. Grasping the cool metal of the second crow bar he joined his friend. 

“Dear boy, I must ask what happened not five minutes ago. I’ve never seen you that panicked before, aside from the Apocalypse of course.” he grunted, the thick wood beginning to finally give way.

Crowley paused in throwing his entire weight against the bar long enough to sigh despairingly.

“Angel- that was-well, I suppose I don’t  _ really _ know  _ exactly _ what happened,” he fumbled, waving his free hand around, a sure sign he was uncomfortable. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows disbelievingly.

“...I just sorta. I dunno, it’s over now though so it’s  **fine** .”

He grumped, throwing himself back into his work with a renewed vigour. 

Huffing, Aziraphale asked Crowley if it was time he step back from the box, as it was almost open and he didn’t want to get hurt. The demon nodded curtly as the lid creaked open, releasing a cloud of dust along with the unpleasant sensation of being watched. Shoving the lid onto the ground, Crowley peered over the lip of the crate, only to be met with the back of a gloved hand to the face. Aziraphale startled to his side as Crowley tripped backwards, matching expressions of shock painting their faces. Crowley made to stand slightly in front of the barbed angel at his side, preparing to protect him from the waves of demonic energy seeping out of the container, which were unexpectedly and alarmingly more intense than he’d sensed. Crowley’s pupils shrunk to anxious pinpricks amidst a golden sea.

“Who in the he- hea- Earth are you, and why have you spent the last few days loitering inside an angel’s book shop?” Crowley announced, feeling quite pleased with how confident he sounded. Aziraphale wondered if he knew how much his voice was wavering.

The satin hand considered flipping them off for a moment before withdrawing back inside the crate. The hand was attached to its owner, (it is actually important to clarify this, this particular hand had been attached to several other demons in the course of its existence) who was feeling quite rash at the moment, as they had just spent a good part of the week stuffed inside a cheap, splintery crate in full formal attire. Of course they had chosen to wear that outfit, but that was beside the point. The demon considered their options as they listened the the pair outside shuffle nervously (Aziraphale had decided that he couldn’t leave Crowley to face the demon alone, and was resetting their placement to a more equally endangered position). They rather felt like with what they’d had to put up with (listening to an angel argue with voicemail for a week was infuriating), they had earned a dramatic entrance, the “dissasembled-body-parts-crawling-up-to-reassemble-themselves-limb-by-limb” being one of their personal favourites. But at the end of the day, they were tired, and wanted to get these morons out of their life as soon as possible.

Crowley had just begun to consider edging closer to the eerily silent box when suddenly there was a tall, suited creature in front of him. Confusion and worry fought for control over his facial features as he recognized the being standing before them. Aziraphale gave the demon a hasty once over warily, blue eyes darting to Crowley and then to the other demon’s tongue, which was currently tracking saliva all over a soft pink eyeball. He supposed that his snake-like friend wasn’t the only one who could do weird things with his tongue.

The maroon, leaf-like crests lining their head (like they put three minutes of work into making acceptable looking hair, which they had no idea how to go about doing in the first place) swayed slightly as the demon spoke.

“You are the demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale.” he said, his voice an almost perfect baritone if it weren’t for the clicks and chirps punctuating his speech pattern.

Crowley seemed to sober up at his words, the angel noticed. He himself was finding it a tad difficult to tear his attention from the demon’s tartan pocket square. The snake demon considered lying before remembering that this tart had been hiding out in the bookshop for about a week now, so they were confirming, not asking. Drawing himself up to his full height (he didn’t like being looked down on, figuratively or literally, and they were currently doing both), he grumbled an affirmation. Leaning back, the demon picked their gloves off their hands.

“Good.” they barked.

Aziraphale decided to draw attention to himself.

“Excuse me, ah-”

“Dagon, Lord of the Files.” Dagon interrupted. “Or more like Lord of the Flies with how much time I spend around the Prince.” they snarked, the joke sliding off the pair like water slides off a duck. They were far too concerned at the moment to appreciate the rare sight of a demonic sense of humour.

“Lord Dagon then. To avoid beating the tush,”

A part of Crowley died as that awful misconstruction entered the world. Dagon just looked confused.

“what exactly is it that you want with us?”

The frilled head nodded knowingly, padded fingers drawing a small, black velvet box from their inner suit pocket.

“I’ve always preferred showing to telling, so why don’t you two just have a look in this chest for me?” they purred, holding the box out to them invitingly.

Crowley was fully aware that Dagon, while being an utter stiff, was a powerful, cunning demon who could incapacitate them both in a blink of their eye (metaphorically anyway, geckos and therefore Dagon did not blink). So when Aziraphale looked like he aimed to protest, he gave him a sharp poke in the ribs to shut him up, which worked, but earned him an affronted look. 

“Why?” Crowley asked, feeling that this was a safe question. The demon rolled their eyes, and proceeded to make a production out of placing his other hand on the lid of the box. Curious blue and yellow gazes followed it reluctantly.

The lid snapped open, the dust that had been loitering in the velvet for decades was finally ousted.

And then several things happened all at once, so I will relay them to you in the most sensible order I can.

 

The box, greedy for its next meal, wrenched over 12000 years worth of memories from two violated minds. It had been getting pretty hangry recently with nothing to fill itself with, but all said and done it was extremely satisfied with the outcome of its little outing.

 

Their minds suddenly found themselves in a fog, trying desperately to latch onto things that it couldn’t remember, feelings that they’d never had. Then everything was gone.

  
  


Aziraphale suddenly found himself blank. 

 

Crowley was empty.

  
  
  


Dagon, knowing they had about five minutes of dazed recovery time to leave without making a fuss, teleported the pair into the bedroom of the shop, and then disappeared back to their desk in the Management wing of Hell, hoping that the traitors would just live out the rest of their days (they were immortal of course, but the end of the world was still coming- eventually.) as the old married couple they acted like and not bother anyone.

 

~~~

 

As you know,angels and demons don’t technically have gender. Or sex for that matter. Pronouns are generally assigned to them by humans, who assume gender constantly. So really they just go with whatever is convenient at the time. Since these particular occult beings don’t remember their pronouns, we will just assume that they’ll figure it out eventually and refer to them both by he/him for convenient story telling.

 

He blinked. Blinking felt...odd. It felt as if he wasn’t meant to do it but got into a habit of it anyway. He blinked again, hoping the small action would clear the fog from his head. It didn’t help, but he decided to keep doing it. Blinking seemed to be the only feasible option right now, he wasn’t sure what to do with the rest of himself just yet. He wondered vaguely if he should be slithering right now, and if that was right then why did he have limbs? 

 

Blink. One after the other this time, not that felt any less strange. 

 

He flopped his head over to the right, nuzzling against the cool, soft thing underneath his cheek. What were these called again? ...Blanquette? No, no, that was French. Times had changed, and so had language. Frowning into the… soft thing, they realized that French was as much a mystery to them as the blanquette was. For that matter, so was the sleepy looking blonde lying just a few feet away from him.

Wait.

Lurching up from the blanquette and stumbling over the wood panels to prop himself haphazardly against a dusty old dresser (why are legs??), he watched the other being in the room suspiciously. The other looked to be harmless, but there was something about him that felt mildly dangerous, and he wasn’t going to take any chances in this state. But really, what was his state? He couldn’t remember anything before waking up a few minutes ago. That wasn’t good. This was very bad, not knowing yourself was very bad problem to have, especially if you can’t defend yourself from- defend from who? He couldn’t remember. He just had that feeling that he was in danger in some way. But at least he remembered common things, like… French, apparently. Thank God for that. Wait, he didn’t want to thank God, that was awkward for some reason.

If not God, then who- Satan? No that didn’t seem right either but who else would you thank, someone? Whatever, Someone would have to do for now. He got the feeling that this was a common dilemma of his.

There was something else about the fellow face planted into the bed that he couldn't quite put his finger on, but it made him uncomfortably comfortable. He didn’t feel like he should be trusting someone he’d never met but already knew. The soft waves of energy emanating from the man made him itchy. He wasn’t sure he liked that. But he couldn’t deny that something about him made him feel safe.

As he raised a pale, twiggy hand to scratch the back of his neck (anatomy! He knew that!), he readjusted his stance and limped slowly over to the bed. He knew how to use his legs, but his hips were an entirely different matter. Were they supposed to sway this much as he walked? Catching sight of a full length mirror propped against a wall, he stood up a tad straighter and gave himself a quick once over. Other than finding himself to be quite aesthetically pleasing, there wasn’t anything that required his immediate attention. Focusing back on the stranger (although he could be referring to himself here for all he knew), he leaned in slightly. Did he know this being? He certainly didn’t  _ remember _ him, but he was pretty sure that he  _ knew _ them. But all sense of sentimentality was forgotten when blue orbs batted open.

 

~~~

 

He felt...bad. This all felt wrong. But how did one know what was the difference between right and wrong, good and bad anyway? Blinking the sleepy haze from his eyes, he zeroed in on the rather angular looking person tensed at the foot of the thing they were lying on. He looked worried about something. Maybe he were suspicious of him? But he’d never done anything to this man as far as he could remember...

His hands move on their own accord to gently pat down his face. Was this who they were? Why didn’t he know that, he should know who he was, of that he was certain. This was definitely wrong-

“Oh dear oh dear oh dear-” he breathed, hand running through his apparently short hair while the other plump digits ran over his clothing. When the person across the room made a move towards them, he was barraged with questions.

“Who are you, where are we?!”   
“I-”   
“What is happening??”

The ginger waved his hands frantically, signalling that he was just as confused and that the interrogation wasn’t helping.

The two of them sat in silence for a minute, staring at each other. Eventually the blonde, once he’d calmed himself, decided they had to start somewhere. Clearing his throat, he inquired the other’s name.

“My name?” the other frowned, thinking hard behind the dark glasses.

“Yes, dear boy, everyone has a name.” he said, even though he currently had no idea what his own was. He hoped that hearing the other’s would jog something. While the skinny creature in the dark clothes pondered the question, the other suddenly wondered what he looked like. Glancing around the dusty room, he caught his reflection in a mirror across the room. He didn’t look like much (in stark contrast to the fellow leaning awkwardly against the dresser), but he found it pleasant. Homely, if you will.

“Well I don’t know who I am right now either, so let’s just call me...erm… I dunno, what’s a good name for me do you think?” he muttered, stuffing his hands into pockets that were far too small for anything to actually fit in.

“Wh- You don’t have your memories either?” the tartan clad man exclaimed.

The ginger shook his head hesitantly.

“Well you look very nice, very sophisticated. Maybe something proper, like Sean or maybe Anthony?” he suggested.

“Anthony, eh? Not bad. Don’t like Sean though." he accepted the name brusquely, and gestured impatiently for the other to do the same.

"Oh! Yes, my name. Erm." He blundered, looking to Anthony for ideas. He was somewhat offended by the small eye roll that accompanied the next suggestion.

“Why not...oh I don’t know, Michael? You could pass for a Michael.”

He shuddered. “No, no, definitely not.” Something about that name just made him uncomfortable. Anthony frowned, and did his best to remedy the sudden tension in the room. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and then looked sideways at Not-Michael.

“You know, I’ve been going along with this because there’s something about you that makes me feel safe, but don’t you think this is suspicious? Don’t you think it’s odd that two amnesiacs wake up together in what looks like the centuries old backroom of a long dead pub?”he growled, making his way slowly across the creaking floor panels to the other man in a threatening manner. He was getting increasingly unnerved by how smoothly this was playing out, he didn’t feel right being this vulnerable.

“Unless, you’re...faking?”

Not-Michael bristled.

“How dare you! A being such as myself could never stoop so low. My only wish is to help and love others, here you stand accusing me of senseless deception!” he cried, standing wobbly on top of the bed to gain height on his attacker.

Anthony looked slightly abashed, but wasn’t backing down.

 

Two brilliantly white wings burst from Not-Michael’s back, sucking up all the color in the space to make way for them. His soft blue eyes hardened into vibrant blue mint orbs, white hair standing more upright than usual. He didn’t like this feeling, it was too intense, too  _ angered _ . But he couldn’t seem to control it, as much as he desperately wanted to when Anthony flung up his arms to shield himself from the burning light illuminating the room.

 

Anthony didn’t know what had happened. One moment he had been interrogating his new acquaintance, and then he’d snapped, outraged and painful. The itch that had been plaguing him furiously bloomed into a fire racing through his veins, scorching him from the inside out.

 

Then suddenly a huge, slightly burnt, black snake had taken Anthony’s place, hissing like mad and coiling itself up defensively, preparing to do just that.

 

Now, and angel’s fury is, like most would assume, righteous. Powerful. But angels can be made furious over practically nothing (part of their design, unfortunately- it made smiting easier), and if the angel in question has no control over that anger and the power that comes with it (or no memory of even having it), then it can spiral out of control very quickly. And as is common with those quick to ferocity, that innocent anger can be easily misguided and taken out on the wrong person. 

 

There are very few things that can halt this kind of anger in its tracks. One of them happens to be receiving a huge, sudden shock. And watching the only person you’ve ever met turn into a giant reptile is certainly surprising.

 

The light was gone. The air stopped vibrating and returned to its usual meander. Electric irises were once again soft. His blood wasn’t burning.

 

The wings however, stayed. But they didn’t possess the light of Heaven anymore, now they were completely normal wings. They’d stayed put because they’d had enough of the pocket dimension they’d been stored in for the last several years and decided to make a break for it. 

The angel took a few steps away from the spitting animal across from him that he didn’t want to believe was Anthony. The speckled wings puffed a bit, mimicking their owners bewilderment.

The snake hissed.

“What have you done to Anthony?” he cried, pointing a plump finger at the just as bewildered looking snake. “Because-” he started, searching desperately for an answer to the beast in front of his very eyes. “Because you can’t  _ be  _ Anthony, people don’t just turn into large snakes. I think.”

Anthony, for his part,was more confused than he’d ever been before, which was saying a lot, seeing as he had woken up just ten minutes ago without his memories. He felt better as a snake though. He couldn’t remember quite how he was a snake, but it felt right this way.

“Oh you think  _ I’m  _ sstrange? You have wingss!” he argued with some difficulty. Speaking through a snake was very different.

“Yes, but that’s normal! Isn’t it? Yes, yes it is, wings are normal. Turning into a huge reptile is most definitely not!” Not-Michael spluttered.

“Being a ssnake iss- um. It doesn’t not feel normal? So that meansss it’ss completely normal, and if it feelss that way then it can’t exactly not be normal!” Anthony blustered.

“What?” The other said, trying valiantly to get through the double negatives to what he was actually saying. His hand faltered, swinging back down to his side.

“Besidess, what wass with all that horrible light? You nearly killed me! Over nothing!”

“I-what? I nearly killed you?” he suddenly looked horrified.

Anthony cringed. He’d wanted to scold the man, but he looked so genuinely and terribly distraught that he felt a little guilty about it. 

“I mean, I don’t think ssso, but it ssure felt like you were getting there.” he mumbled, coiling himself into a loose pile of scales. He noticed vaguely that there were red stripes adorning his underbelly.

“I… I’m so sorry, Anthony. I truly didn’t mean to hurt you, I just wasn’t sure how to control it, and I was so furious over what seems like nothing, now. I’m so sorry my dear.” he sighed, blue gaze eventually meeting a golden eye.

“Ss’okay angel, I’m ssure you...I mean you had good reasson to… we’ll work on it.” the snake grumbled. Not-Michael perked up, a small smile on his face. Anthony decided then and there that he liked that smile.

“Angel?” he asked, wondering if that might have once been his name.

Anthony said nothing. He wasn’t entirely sure if that had once been some sort of pet name, or if it was poking fun at what seriously looked to be the man’s species. The only part he mentioned aloud were his musings on what exactly the blonde was, because he vaguely certain that wings and terrible light weren’t part of the average human package. The other thought it over, and decided to accept the theory as truth. So now he was an angel. How about that. 

“What do you think,” he started contemplatively “of just calling me Angel for now?”

The black scaly head cocked to the side slightly, not unlike a dog.

“I sssupose that could work.” he agreed.

Angel smiled appreciatively. “Say Anthony, do you think you could possibly turn back now?”he queried, straightening and then immediately crouching back down to eye level with Anthony. 

“It’s not that I have anything against your being a snake? But it really would be easier to sort through this mess if we’re both in the same form.” he paused, then added “and I’m pretty sure that I am unable to become a snake.”

If snakes could blink owlishly (or blink at all for that matter), then Anthony would have done so. Unfortunately the only thing his body could muster to convey his realization was his jaw hanging open. This gave him the gently surprised look of someone who’d just found out that ethereal and occult beings Make An Effort far more often than they would like to admit. 

“You- you do know how to turn back,,, don’t you?”

He did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finally fished building up to this, thank someone! 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed, please leave a comment and tell me what you thought! it's literally just comments that keep me motivated to write this, so a big thank you to everyone who's said something, i love you all!
> 
> see you next wednesday hopefully! (and that's not wednesday this week, sorry)


	5. What do Snakes Need Wings for Anyway?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale doesn't like hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i LIIIIIVE  
> hey guys! first of all, i am super duper sorry for falling off the face of the earth. i was kinda unmotivated to keep writing for a while, and i didn't know where to take this, but eventually i was just afraid of letting the people who like this story down and got pressured into making more. and that's a good thing! pressure me!! cause apparently that's the only thing that gets me to do things while school takes up most of my time. also my update schedule is dead if you hadn't noticed.
> 
> so ye, thanks for not giving up on me, sorry this chapter is crap.

**CHAPTER FIVE**

The rest of the afternoon was spent in benign chaos. It had taken a good hour or so to cajole Anthony's body into its other shape, and even then his eyes and feet absolutely refused to remain humanoid. Anthony had taken to yelling at his reflection, perhaps to intimidate his body into cooperation. Unfortunately demonic corporations tend to be much hardier than the common houseplant, and thus remained, rather spitefully, reptilian. Neither of them were too concerned about Angel’s wings- they had made it very clear they didn’t plan to go back anytime soon. Wings have a mind of their own that they occasionally share with their owner, and this pair, having escaped the pocket dimension, were feeling rather cocky. So they decided that Angel and Anthony would be perfectly comfortable with them, and that was that. This made Anthony’s own wings jealous.

“Angel I’m not going down those.”

“Anthony,  _ please. _ They aren’t terribly-”

“Are you joking?! There is no way I’m going to manage those when I’ve had to support myself on a dresser this whole bloody time!”   
Angel, halfway down the small flight of stairs leading down to another part of the building, sighed exasperatedly.

“They are just stairs my dear. Something tells me you can handle walking downwards.”

“Wh- you- hey!” The ginger spluttered, clutching the door frame for dear life as his legs trembled slightly. Angel gave him a Look, and made his way back up to help his friend down ten steps. That was the moment Anthony’s black, rather large wings made their entrance, fueled by saltiness and irrational panic.  Thought the wings were much too large to fit in the doorway, and proceeded to fold in on themselves to manage, forcing Anthony to an uncomfortable looking squat. Several feathers floated by Angel’s nose. 

“Oh!” He breathed, struck by the beauty of the snake’s feathers. Ridiculous as they made Anthony look in his current position, he could still appreciate how nice the feathers were. Anthony didn’t look like he felt the same. His expression communicated the sudden, violent desire to flop out the nearest window. 

Peering over the squashed black feathers, the white haired man smiled nervously. His own wings were folded tightly at his sides, significantly more disciplined than Antony’s impulsive flappers. 

“So you have wings as well? How nice!” he said over the other’s muffled grumbling.

“Yeah well they aren’t very nice to me.” came the garbled complaint from within the downy bundle, punctuated with Anthony spitting out small feathers that had drifted into his mouth. “Kind of-” Anthony grunted, trying to right himself from where he’d landed on the floor with little success, finding his wings were far too large for the space they squeezed themselves into.

“-a pain in the arse right now. Think if I kicked one it’d go away?” he strained, grabbing ahold of a few feathers and yanking. The wings waited patiently for him to give up, which he did, with a small yelp. Angel leaned down to hold the tip of one wing out of his way so he could see Anthony’s face. 

“That’s a terrible idea dear, you should treat your body better than that.” he frowned. “And besides, I got mine settled, you should be able to do the same with yours.” he consoled, blue eyes roving over the glossy black feathers.

Anthony rolled his eyes so far back his head moved with him.

“It’s not that they’re flailing everywhere Angel, it’s that they got me stuck in a door frame! And I don’t know how to make them go back to- to- wherever they came out of!” voice raising with every word, he gestured frustratedly at the uncomfortable position he’d been forced into when his new limbs had decided to occupy ninety-six percent of his space.

Angel’s face contorted in awkward sympathy.

“I don’t need your pity, I just want some help.” Anthony deadpanned.

“Yes, yes, of course.” he exclaimed, busying himself with maneuvering behind one of the wings to where it was wedged between the splintering wood.

“Alright Anthony, I’m just going to try and wiggle this one out slowly and then hopefully that’ll make enough space for you to get yourself free.” he said, reaching over the bend and laying a hand gently on the radius, which quivered slightly under the light touch. 

“I don’t care how you do it, just do  _ something _ .” Anthony groaned. Having his wings folded in such an unnatural manner was starting to hurt.

Patting Anthony reassuringly, Angel gripped the wing firmly with both hands and gave a sharp tug. Glancing down quickly at the slight flinch from the man on the floor, he tried wiggling the wing towards his chest with less force this time. As it began to give way, he suddenly realized what would happen as soon as Anthony was free. 

_ Ffffwump _

The force with which the wing became unstuck was great, and since Anthony had been simultaneously “helping” by pulling his other wing, sent the both of them tumbling down the stairs in a heap of limbs and feathers.

The white wings were not amused.

The black shared the sentiment but weren't allowed to express it on account that the whole ordeal was their fault.

The man in black heaved himself upright, bones creaking in protest. 

“What’s a snake person need wings for anyway?” he exhaled, staring at the ceiling. Tugging some primaries from beneath him, he glanced down at Angel, who so far hadn’t said anything. The only noise he’d made were sounds of vaguely pained displeasure as if he’d just watched someone peel an onion with a potato peeler. Anthony frowned and crawled on his knees to roll his companion over onto his stomach from where’d he’d been crushing one of his wings. 

Angel swatted a boney finger away from his cheek, carefully rolling over onto his knees as he listened to Anthony ramble beside him.

“Oh good you’re alright, thought maybe you’d fainted or something. Good job back there by the way, thanks for the assist.” Anthony brushed off his coat, where the dust, sensing dark clothing, had begun to accumulate. 

Angel tugged a wing towards him gently, running a hand though it experimentally.

Anthony was drawn away from his losing battle against the dust by a small yelp as Angel brushed against a particularly sensitive spot. They watched in horror as a healthy looking secondary drifted to the floorboards.

Anthony’s hands were immediately darting over the petrified man’s wings, frantically checking for broken bones, or anything else that could be wrong with a wing. Truth be told, he didn’t remember much about caring for wings. Maybe he’d never had problems with his in the past (or he, you know, didn’t like what they reminded him of so he neglected them). 

"Well, I mean,, nothing feels broken? So it's probably just a fluke and nothing's really wrong, right Angel?" he rambled. "Angel? Eyes up here." Snapping his fingers in quick succession to grab his friends attention.

And as he snapped, unintentionally drawing power from Hell, many unexplainable things occurred outside the shop. Several coins found themselves suddenly glued to the pavement, a loaf of bread appeared in St James' park, and a nearby water fountain began to malfunction- spraying viscous jets of lukewarm water at anyone who neared it. 

Anthony was entirely oblivious to the mayhem he was causing.

Angel blinked slowly. “Did you feel that?”

“Feel what? The wing? I think that one’s yours.”   
“Wh- No, no, I mean the... bad.”

Anthony squinted at his friend dubiously. He hadn’t  _ seen  _ him hit his head, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.

“Didn’t you feel it? It was like a sort of vague notion of mischief.”

 Angel obviously had no grasp on what he was talking about either, which did not help his case in the slightest. What neither of them knew was that what the angel had just described was the aura of the the demon Crowley. 

“Oh do stop giving me that look dear boy, you look almost comically pained.” Angel scoffed.

“Oh, yeah, like ‘vague notion of mischief’ doesn’t deserve a good squint.” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up exasperatedly. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“Oh I don’t know!” Angel rolled his eyes. “Let’s just try to figure out where we are, alright?”

The redhead nodded amicably, untangling his legs from where they’d been contorted underneath him in a manner that suggested having far too many joints than was required. Angel stood and promptly stumbled as Anthony’s legs decided they were done for the day. The yellow eyes peered at him sheepishly from where their body had latched onto his shoulder.

“...come here often?” he blurted, fingers scrabbling at the tan trenchcoat as Angel moved to support his weight.

“I suppose I must, seeing as I live here.” He gestured to his body flippantly as they began to inch forwards.

“But if you’re going to use it as a crutch for the foreseeable future then I think you might frequent it more than I.” he snarked, raising an eyebrow.

Anthony snorted, and Angel’s snide facade gave way to a soft smile as he noticed just how lovely Anthony’s laugh was. And he would have told him just that if not for the stack of books suddenly in front of his nose. He adjusted his grip on Anthony’s jacket before turning to him and murmuring a quick warning. The other looked up and quickly tucked his wings in tight on his back, several longer feathers dragging on the dirty floorboards. Angel wished those beautiful feathers wouldn’t have to be dirtied, such a shame.

“So your wings are tame now, hm?” he smirked, turning them slightly to maneuver around a bookshelf bursting with decrepit looking papers. 

“Oh shut it.” Anthony grinned, hopping a little to get his bearings on the spotless flooring. 

Soon they were at the door, only slowed a little bit by Anthony abruptly deciding that he was going to walk by himself and then tripping into a stack of books less than one second after his proclamation, Angel cringing beside him. 

They had decided along the way to the threshold that once outside they were going to find someone to fix up the wing that had been illegally shedding feathers, and maybe someone who knew who they were- they’d both agreed that finding a former companion would be immensely helpful in their Remembrance Road Trip. 

What they hadn’t agreed on was calling their efforts the “Remembrance Road Trip.”

Anthony stepped out into the sunlight, squinting upwards at the gray, puffy… patches of condensed water vapour and wondered why he couldn’t remember what they were called. He knew what they were, he just simultaneously didn’t. Silly question, he supposed, seeing as he couldn’t remember anything else today. 

Just how long would this memory lapse last?

He hadn’t quite had time to process everything that had happened, and he wasn’t positive he wanted to. It seemed pretty inconvenient to have a sudden crisis in the middle of foot traffic. Speaking of, he and Angel were getting some rather suspicious looks from the people walking by. They gave each other a look, and wordlessly began strolling in a direction that hopefully made them look less lost than they were.

After a few minutes of awkwardly shuffling around passersby as to not accidentally whack someone with a wing, Angel muttered “Dear, have you noticed that none of these other people have wings?”

Anthony, who had been noticeably trying very hard not to notice, sighed.

“I suppose so, now that you mention it.”

Angel decided to let his friend fool himself into thinking that he had succeeded in looking unbothered.

Anthony’s shoulders were stiffening in discomfort at all the eyes on them, so he gestured Angel to move across the pavement to the other side. The sidewalk opposite them looked a bit less crowded, maybe they’d get less stares.

Hurrying into the road, glancing backwards at the other pedestrians, they never noticed the battered sedan doing what looked like ninety miles an hour hurtling towards them.

People on the sidewalk began shouting and waving their arms furiously. The silver car slammed on its brakes at the last possible second, forgetting that the road was still slick from last nights rain, and was sent into an out of control skid. 

The vehicles brakes were actually quite good, but unfortunately they were not good enough to bring a horribly speeding car to a complete stop in less than eight seconds.

There was a sickening  _ crunch  _ as the car skidded into the wayward occult creatures, sending both flying a good twenty feet or so.

 

A thick, oppressive silence descended upon Greek Street.

 

A woman brought a hand to her chest. No one dared breathe.

 

The driver of the sedan shakily opened her door, eyes trained on the two people- no ‘Manda, not people, bodies. Those are the corpses of the people you hit, because there is no way that they are alive-

 

Fortunately for Amanda the reckless driver, they were alive. And surprisingly, not discorporated either.

When angels were young, and couldn’t control their abilities, their magic was instinctive. It responded to what the angel needed, so for instance, if that uneducated angel were in grave danger, that angel’s magic would do anything it could to keep its master safe. Meaning that in this instance, Angel and Anthony’s magic has been de-evolved to its original, unpredictable state. Their survival instincts kicked in and they were protected from what could have been a grisly demise.

The next few minutes were a blur. Peoples hands were suddenly roving all over Angel’s sides, and he had to push them off groggily to make them go away. This didn’t help much though, because the moment of peace that had given him was immediately stolen away by shouting and more hands, dragging him upright this time. He could see alright, but everything was a bit fuzzy. He felt like his energy had been ripped away from him in a split second and now he could hardly function without it. Were the panicked faces holding up their fingers in front of him asking him something? He wasn’t sure, but he must have said something to get that relieved expression. 

 

This entire day has been a mess, he thought blearily. Anthony’s probably getting irritated if he’s getting the same treatment as I- oh! Anthony!

 

Angel’s wings shifted behind him as he stretched over the sea of worried faces to look for his friend. He noticed vaguely that there were some people hanging back, pointing at his agitated wings with confounded, almost fearful expressions. His attention was drawn back downwards as he felt something tap his shoulder politely.

“Excuse me sir, but how are you uninjured right now?? And are those wings real???” An incredulous looking woman beside him asked.

“Oh I’m not quite sure actually. And of course they’re real, why wouldn’t they be?” the angel murmured, watching her thin (but not penciled) eyebrows shoot up into her hairline bemusedly. She shook her head.

“Okay well I just wanted to apologize, I’m the person who hit you, and I think I’m going to call an ambulance just in case sir.” She frowned. “My name is Amanda by the way, and I am so, so, so sorry,,” she spluttered, running a hand through her seriously styled locks and squeezed back out of the crowd.

Any second thought he would have given to her was taken by someone shoving a small device in his face and demanding information on his miraculous survival and his wings. 

“For the last time,” he snapped “I don’t know, and yes my wings are still real. I really don’t see how they couldn't be.”

The nasally voice kept pestering him with repetitive questions until he just ignored it.

The hands constantly touching him much too foreign for his liking, and he constantly had to brush them off, like he was trying to deter a particularly invasive swarm of mosquitoes. Blue eyes scanned the crowd, searching for the familiar shock of ginger. No luck.

“Excuse me, excuse me, erm, may I please get though-” he inched his way through the crowd. Then out of nowhere, there were formally dressed people shoving fuzzy sticks practically up his nose, asking too many questions, and all at the same time. He didn’t really care what a cosplayer was, but thankfully, neither did Anthony, who was pushing and shoving his way to the center of the hubbub, unwillingly dragging his own crowd of people along with him. 

“ANGEL!”

“A-Anthony?”

Stepping on a reporters foot, the disheveled man stopped before him,pointedly  ignoring the squawks of the reporter behind him. Their wings flared around them, creating a sort of bubble between them and those unwelcome.

“Anthony that should have killed us, right?”

“That’s what I thought but I guess not. And more importantly, how do we get those crazy people out there to bugger off?”

Angel nodded thoughtfully, brushing some loose gravel from the other’s jacket. “I’m not sure. Honestly I don't really feel up to any flying just yet, but maybe-”

 

And then, like he’d always been there, a small boy clutching a smaller dog looked up from in between their huddle and asked,

 

“What are you two doing on the telly? You’re really making a scene you know.”

 

The dog barked in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so things are starting to happen :)))  
> thanks for finishing this chapter, hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> please leave kudos if you liked it, and maybe a comment to let me know what you thought! see you next chapter!


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